At the corner, the gray car turned into a side connecting road and waited in the darkness.
For a moment, he stood in the shadow of the hotel and considered the options and the questions.
Why had they — whoever they were — waited patiently so long and then gone on a murderous rampage that claimed two men and nearly claimed a reporter?
And what was his option after all?
The Adviser wanted the Section to call off the game. Hanley had given him a small cover but it would not last very long. How long could he trust Hanley?
And now he was blown. Rita Macklin would not trust him, would seek to expose him. He would not get the journal from her.
The only cards he held were the “proofs” that Denisov had given him, the two photocopied messages that might be true or not and the photograph of Leo Tunney, not much but perhaps enough to ensure his survival in any bureaucratic bloodletting that might follow Rita’s exposure. Might, might.
He could kill Rita.
The possibility was there. He thought of it and then let it go. He would not kill her. She was out of the game.
He looked around the corner and saw the two men sitting in the gray car at the cross street.
McGillicuddy was killed in error. He must assume that. The bullet in the confessional was intended for Tunney. First he had a secret that everyone wanted; and now he had a secret that everyone wanted kept secret.
Why? Why kill him now?
He felt frozen by the questions. Perhaps it was time to put them aside. There were two men waiting in a gray car for him, for Rita, for someone.
Devereaux stepped out of the shadows into the lights of the street.
He started down the sidewalk alongside Gulf View, moving slowly and easily to the main road that would eventually lead him to the causeway and the city beyond.
Once, in the light of a shop-window, he saw the gray car turn the corner behind him and move slowly down the street.
They were coming for him; it was time to change the rules of the game.
Devereaux began to walk quickly down Gulf View, swinging his arms.
In the next block, across from the beach, was a building site, announcing shared-time vacation condominiums. A construction site would have to do. He saw that the lot opened on both Gulf View and the parallel street beyond.
Suddenly, Devereaux ducked into the rubble and lost himself in the shadows of the concrete pilings supporting a second deck. Around him was a forest of similar pilings with exposed rods, and stacks of concrete blocks and finishing forms.
The gray car slid slowly past the lot and then sped up.
One in front, one in back, Devereaux thought. A classic trap.
He waited, holding his breath, not moving. He felt the heaviness of the pistol at his belt. He suspected the gray car would stop at the corner and one man would get out and come back down Gulf View to the lot while the second would cut down the cross street to Coronado — the parallel road. Two men, one in the front and one in the back. Men with weapons.
Devereaux waited calmly. He did not feel fear or any other emotion. His hands were still at his sides, his pistol was in his belt.
He could see both streets, both were empty.
A clattering sound, a rock thrown in the lot.
Shadows in the moonlight and a tangle of unfamiliar shapes hiding him.
A second sound, this time a man’s step on the rubble.
One man in, he thought.
Time for the pistol.
He reached under the jacket easily and removed the piece with one movement. A game of patience. He had one weapon, they had two; he was one target, they were two, coming from different directions. But in the light, he would see their forms against the streetscape before they could see him.
Sweat broke out in small beads on his face but his eyes were lazy and gray and calm.
“Hey? Hey, you? What the hell y’all doing in there? Y’all come here a minute? This is the police, I’m talking at you.”
Devereaux looked to Gulf View. Through the pilings, he saw the police car slide up to the curb.
“Did you hear, come on over here gawdammit, I’m gonna come in and get your ass.”
A man emerged from the pilings, not from where Devereaux had expected.
“That’s private property in there, son,” the cop said. “What the hell were you doing there?”
“Sorry.” In contrast, the voice was rough, northern, hard-edged. “Taking a piss. Had too much to drink.”
“Gawdam. You all think you come down here and can take a piss in the street? Ain’t no gawdam bathroom, ain’t they got toilets back up where you come from?”
“Yeah. Listen. I’m sorry.”
“Come here and let us look at you. You got some identification on you?”
For a moment, the match was even.
Devereaux pushed away from the piling, his feet scrambling soundlessly over the rubble, moving to the secondary road away from the police car.
The second man would be coming.
Quietly.
Devereaux looked around the corner and saw the gray car stopped at the curb. The door opened with a flash of interior light and a big man got out.
Devereaux pressed himself very hard against the wall of the dry-cleaning shop that formed part of the next building.
If he took him, it would be without guns. And it would have to be done quietly, while the first one was momentarily detained by the police patrol on the main road.
The big man stepped cautiously, half-crouching, into the building site.
Not a sound.
Devereaux stretched out and grasped the big man by the right shoulder, swinging him violently around, like the end child on a game of crack-the-whip. The big man careened face first into the red stucco wall. The sound was like that of a sponge thrown against a shower stall.
Dazed, the man went down, blood welling from his broken nose.
The second blow, a hard chop to the shoulder, finished him. He sprawled forward. Devereaux leaned over him and heaved him to his feet. He had decided on a new plan in the moment of action; Tunney would wait a few more hours.
The pair of them staggered into the second street to the empty gray car that waited, idling.
It must be done quickly.
Devereaux spotted the key in the ignition. He pushed the nearly lifeless body against the side of the car while he fished through the window. Keys in hand now, he opened the trunk. He looked around but the street was empty, though at the far end, a car was turning into the drive that led to the causeway.
Devereaux dumped the big man effortlessly into the trunk and stood up, slamming the lid.
He got behind the wheel of the gray car and pushed the lever into drive. The car moved forward slowly. He drove carefully to the toll bridge connecting the island to Sand Key and crossed. He paid at the far end and went on for five more minutes, past small homes and hotels and sprawling residential apartment complexes.
He knew where he was going.
The sign at the side road on the narrow key said a new development was coming in spring; at the moment, the development site on the water’s edge consisted of three wooden huts, boarded up, abandoned. They overlooked an old wooden pier that jutted out into the narrow channel that led to the Gulf.
He turned the lights off and drove the gray car into a space between two of the huts.
He had seen the huts on the second day, when he had followed the gray car tracking Rita Macklin on her morning run.
He opened the trunk. The big man was glassy-eyed and blood-stained but conscious.
Devereaux stared at him and the big man crawled painfully out of the trunk. He towered over Devereaux by four inches.
He took a swipe at him suddenly, the hand coming up open and hard.